


we are always, always searching for home

by jemmafitzsimmons (okeyes)



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Fitzsimmons Secret Valentine, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 18:47:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6090598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okeyes/pseuds/jemmafitzsimmons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe she wants a piece of him—a piece of the tousled, pastry-loving boy with the very vibrant blue eyes.</p><p>A Regency Era AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we are always, always searching for home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ughfitz (wokemeup)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wokemeup/gifts).



> This is a gift for the Fitzsimmons Secret Valentine Exchange for the lovely ughfitz! I apologize for how incredibly late this is and I hope this makes up for it. Also, I must preface this fic by saying: I'm not great with historical fiction ans I didn't particularly know much about the Regency Era going into this, so most of my knowledge doesn't extend past what I've Googled in the last few weeks and I apologize if that shows. Once again, I'm sorry this took so long and I hope you like it!
> 
> Title is from "In My Home" by Young the Giant.

She spots him under the table.

 

Well, more specifically: she spots his book under the table. Its new, well-put together cover beckons her from her seat at the ballroom table, her hands folded primly in her lap. Her eyes keep wandering towards the book underneath the table, watching as each page flips and a gentle bellow of air lifts the table coverings just slightly, revealing a small leather dress shoe that belongs to someone nearly, if not the same age as her. 

 

Jemma knows she should be paying attention to the festivities; taking notes on the social graces of the older women before her, dancing delicately across the ballroom with their male counterparts, as if they’re floating on a cloud. Jemma also knows that she _should_ find this interesting, to yearn for her chance to be one of them—the epitome of elegance. But truthfully, nothing sounds less interesting. 

 

Jemma is certain that spending her entire day in the garden watching snails pass by is more interesting than conforming to the list of social standards laid before her since birth.

 

Again, Jemma is only twelve years old and _surely_ —according to her parents—she mustn't feel this way forever. Surely, when she is older, she will understand the importance of becoming a proper, refined young woman, and soon thereafter, a worthy, respectable bride. Oh, _joy_. How she never longed for the day that would inevitably come. 

 

Instead, she exhibited the completely opposite type of behavior, slipping away from the unassuming, preoccupied gaze of her parents, grabbing her cherry tart off the table before ducking behind a woman with a particularly enormous set of skirts and gracefully sliding under the table shielding the boy, somehow miraculously maintaining a firm hold on the plate.

 

Not that Jemma Simmons actually believes in miracles, per se. The phrasing just seemed appropriate. 

 

He doesn’t notice her at first, too far engrossed in the words before him. His hair is an unkempt, floppy mess of curls, and the satin of his suit is far too stiff for his atrocious posture. Something about him, however, is endearing to Jemma—something she can’t quite place, not yet, but it spurs her to move slightly closer, the material of her dress crinkling.

 

He looks up immediately, alarm etched across his features as if he’s expecting to be caught at any moment. The expression on his face nearly makes Jemma’s face split in laughter, but she immediately calms herself, resuming a serious demeanor. 

 

“I would like to make a trade,” she proposes by way of greeting, her voice a soft whisper against the clanking and bustling above and around them.

 

The boy blinks skeptically at her, his gaze shifting protectively over his book. “Erm—” he barely lets out, before she speaks again.

 

“Not to keep,” Jemma clarifies. “But, to observe. If you will.” 

 

She pushes the plate in between them, the tart paling greatly in comparison to a copy of Mary Shelley’s _Frankenstein_ , one of Jemma’s most adored pieces of literature. Which is saying quite a lot considering how extensive her parents’ library is—taking over both back rooms on the main floor of their house. 

 

A couple seconds pass between the two of them, the boy seemingly weighing his options, and then, tentatively picks up the fork and moves the plate closer to him.

 

Jemma grins, delighted that her plan worked, but hovers over the book hesitantly, afraid that the boy might break their agreement and make off with her treat and beloved book as some sort of prank. That is not beyond many of the boys Jemma’s had the misfortune of encountering, she’ll have you know.

 

Still, the boy looks seemingly innocent and gestures vaguely at her. “Go on, then.” 

 

Jemma eagerly reaches for the book, hands gliding over the pages in reverence. She thinks her ogling might be unladylike, as an afterthought, but by the way the boy beside her is stuffing his face with pastry, she supposes he couldn’t possibly mind. 

 

“I’ve read this book more times than I can keep track,” Jemma finds herself saying quietly, as if it’s an untold secret between two close friends. “So much that the pages started falling out. Father was so displeased, for having pages strewn about all over our house. He’s very particular about treatment of books, you see. He and my mother are quite fond of our library at home and I can’t say I’m any different, really. This book is truly just a work of art.” 

 

The boy nods along with her, having finished off his pastry at an alarming speed. “Mum and I have a library, as well. It’s, well,” he scratches the back of his neck, seeming embarrassed. “It’s _sufficient_.” 

 

Jemma quirks a brow, leaning forward. “Does your father not like reading, then?” 

 

The boy’s bashful smile turns rueful. “No father in the picture, unfortunately.” 

 

“Oh!” Jemma reaches out to touch his wrist, but thinks better of it. This little rendezvous has already broken enough rules—she at least wants to maintain some decorum. “My apologies. I couldn’t possibly imagine.” 

 

The boy shrugs. “S’quite fine, really. It’s been me and my mum for a bit of time now, and also my nan, but she’s not actually my nan. Just an old madam that helps my mum look after me. Haven’t thought much of it, quite honestly.” 

 

He brushes away at the crumbs on his suit and Jemma can’t help but feel a bit sad for him, not having a father round to teach him how to be an upstanding man. But really, the more she thinks about it, she’d rather not be pitied for her lack of desire to be married off to a Mr. Something or Other in a few years time, so why pity him? Maybe there’s something to be said of a bond between two misunderstood people, both fond of the mystery and seemingly limitless escape only books can offer. 

 

Maybe, just possibly, they could be friends. 

 

“Well,” Jemma finally speaks. “If you’re not bothered, I’m truly glad.” 

 

The boy meets her gaze, his eyes the bluest of all blues she’s ever seen. His smile is lopsided and the teeth that show are crooked, only slightly, but something about him is pleasant. Something about him makes Jemma want to carve out of place in her life for him. 

 

She moves to close the book, but the boy stops her, pressing his hands against hers to keep the book close to her. 

 

“Keep it, then,” he insists, his fingers twitching against hers before pulling away quickly.

 

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly—”

 

“S’all right. I insist.” The boy glances briefly under the tablecloth, eyes flitting around before pulling away. “Mum is looking for me. I have to leave, I’m afraid.” 

 

He moves to slip out, but Jemma grabs his wrist quickly. His eyes stay trained on her hand and Jemma feels her cheeks warm, but doesn’t release her hold quite yet. 

 

“At least tell me your name.” She can’t let him get away without knowing that. She wouldn’t forgive herself for it. 

 

The boy exhales, as if he’s dreading leaving in the first place. “Fitz. Leopold Fitz, but please only call me Fitz, for my sake. Only my mum calls me Leopold,” Fitz informs her, disgusting curling over the syllables of his name.  

 

“Right, well. Fitz, I’m afraid I cannot accept your book,” Jemma shoves the book back towards him, but he shakes his head. 

 

“Take it,” he says softly, pushing it back towards her before disappearing under the cloth seconds later, leaving Jemma no room to protest further. 

 

Though, if she’s being completely honest with herself, maybe she wants a piece of him—a piece of the tousled, pastry-loving boy with the very vibrant blue eyes. 

 

Not that she’d ever admit it. 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Jemma sees him again a few days later. A carriage pulls up, with freshly brushed horses and servants awaiting their arrival. Furnishings of velvet and silk and dishes made of fine China are taken into the house across from hers, which has not been lived in for nearly a decade. 

 

She can’t deny her excitement when she sees Fitz, looking particularly grumpy as he exits the carriage, a book tucked snugly underneath his arm as he’s being fussed over by his an older woman who must be nan. 

 

In her eagerness to speak with Fitz again, she convinces her own caregiver to escort her across the road, with a greeting basket in one hand and her—well, Fitz’s—copy of _Frakenstein_ in the other. She can’t help but bounce a little on her feet as they wait for the door to be opened; the excitement she feels is unlike anything she’s ever felt before. 

 

If Jemma’s being perfectly honest with herself, friendships are so few and far in between to the point where that aspect of her life might as well be non-existent. Jemma knows her wits and intelligence and complete lack of desire to lead the typical life of a young woman doesn’t make her very appealing to either gender, but especially female. Books, journaling and knitting and anything of the like have been her source of companionship, much to her parents’ dismay. 

She knows that secretly, despite her parents’ understanding of her less than conventional outlook on her pre-planned life, they do wish for her to marry and conceive at least one grandchild. She knows that she has duties she simply cannot ignore, and although that leaves an unrelenting, queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, Jemma hopes that this could be the step of acceptance. Instead of closing herself off, maybe making a friend is something she needs, and surprisingly, it’s something she _wants_ , to the point where she’s feeling particularly giddy about it. 

 

She just hopes Fitz feels the same.

 

Upon opening the door, Fitz looks only slightly less grumpy, but there’s still a firm crinkle in between his brows and his lips are down-turned in an unimpressed fashion. That is, until he recognizes her and immediately changes his expression, his face contorting slightly before settling on an uneasy smile. 

 

“Good morning, Fitz,” Jemma says brightly, brandishing the greeting basket in front of his face. She knows how much he’s fond of sweets. 

 

Fitz looks overwhelmed, the tips of his ears pinking slightly, but he accepts the basket nonetheless, taking in her appearance. Jemma’s dressed pretty plainly today, in typical school day attire—though she finished having formal lessons many months ago—and her hair is parted in two braids down either side. Truthfully, she doesn’t give much thought to her appearance beyond the extent of which she thinks about her social graces lessons (which, in case you were wondering, is _very_ little), but underneath Fitz’s gaze, she feels slightly nervous, resisting the urge to tug at the end of her hair. 

 

Noticing her discomfort, Fitz sputters, gripping firmer on the basket. “Good morning to you, then,” he nods politely at her caregiver, who is significantly charmed by his floundering about. He glances down at Jemma’s hands, smiling slowly. “I see you brought the book.” 

 

“Yes. In fact, I thought we could read it together,” Jemma says hopefully. 

 

Fitz twists his mouth, staring at her for a long moment. “Actually,” his voice catches in his throat, before he clears it and sighs, seemingly annoyed at himself. “Would you fancy coming inside? I have something I’d like to show you.” 

 

Jemma nods eagerly, entering the threshold of Fitz’s home when he steps aside. Fitz hands off the greeting basket to one of the servants in the foyer before escorting her further down the hall. His house sparkles and gleams where Jemma’s is dull and muted; there is no visible trace of dust in any crevice, the floors are freshly polished, and it smells faintly of lemon. Fitz’s fingers brush lightly against her wrist, steering her in the left direction, as her caregiver trails slowly behind them, equally as awestruck from the decor. 

 

Fitz parts a set of mahogany double doors and reveals the most grand library Jemma has ever laid eyes on. Books upon books filled the room, which has to be at least three times the size of the main sitting room in her own home. No matter where she rests her eyes, she sees books, each as interesting as the next. She almost feels unworthy, hesitantly brushing her fingertip against the spine of a scientific journal, itching to read it. 

 

“Fitz,” Jemma breathes out, amazed. “I’m afraid your initial description of this library was woefully understated.” 

 

Fitz squirms a bit, eyes trained on the floor. “Erm, well. I do recall saying it was sufficient.”

 

“My point exactly,” Jemma jests, and Fitz blushes a bit, gesturing vaguely around them.

 

“Yes, well. Read whatever you like.” 

 

If Jemma weren’t such a firm believer in science, she would swear her heart grew three sizes because the space in her chest feels so abnormally tight in this moment. Instead, she just smiles—the kind of smile that takes over her entire face without her control—and in that moment something shifts. 

 

In that moment, they become friends.

 

* * *

 

 

 

And this is how they become best friends: 

 

When their weekly book exchanges become daily as they make their way through Fitz’s library, which tend to stretch for more than hours at a time. When Jemma is greeted by name by many servants of various jobs around the house who she’s only seen merely once or twice. When formal dinners at Jemma’s home with Fitz’s attendance became such a normal occurrence that if he isn’t able to attend, the difference in the atmosphere is undeniably significant. When the occasional sit-downs at garden tea to discuss a novel or academic journal become nearly daily, and Jemma doesn’t mind at all. 

 

Secretly, she worries that Fitz would tire of her—tire of her ability to have discussion at length of almost any topic worthy of thought, of her teasing and chiding and tendency to get prickly flower stems tangled in Fitz’s curls when she makes flowers crowns for the both of them at tea and insists he wears his. 

 

But he never grows tired of her and he always keeps the flowers in his hair until they dry and flake off by the end of the day. And they remain friends as the seasons change and the shade of the leaves warm and pale and fall and grow back again, finding a likeness in each other of science and learning and books and realizing together, they are twice as smart and always, undoubtedly, equally matched.  

 

It’s when they turn sixteen and talk of marriage and betrothal and every aspect of life Jemma has avoided for as long as she was able to think on her own hits her with crushing shock and a faint ache of despair. 

 

For the first time in Jemma’s life, she cannot think her way through or around it. She doesn’t want to.

 

* * *

 

 

 

They’re at tea in the garden when she asks.

 

Fitz is lazily reading over Pride and Prejudice per Jemma’s request, though she can tell he’s utterly bored by it. Possibly as bored as she is, attempting to knit Fitz a hat for the winter time. There’s a thin line of yarn tied around the crown of Fitz’s head from when Jemma measured it and he looks particularly silly, in his expensive day clothes with a fuzzy piece of thread wrapped underneath his curls. 

 

Jemma’s noticed that as of late it’s becoming harder for her to look at him for long. Because if she looks for too long, she remembers his once floppy, uncontrolled hair and his alarmed eyes and his stiff suit and the way his wrist tensed under her touch. She’ll remember what it was like first meeting him and feeling, somewhere deep in her heart, that they should never part. 

 

If she stares for too long, she’ll realize how terrifying the thought of losing him is—how terrifying marriage to an unknown man and children and a life she does not want is in the very near future. She’ll have to accept it will not always be _just_ them, under the shade in the garden, amongst the many books and quills and all the pastries Fitz can feast on. She isn’t ready.

 

Still, she asks, “Have you thought much about marriage?” 

 

Fitz looks up, blinking rapidly for a long moment. “I..., ah.” He pauses, wringing out his fingers—a habit Jemma noticed many years, a tell-tale sign of nervousness—before shrugging. “Not...often?” 

 

“Oh?” Jemma isn’t necessarily surprised, and yet, it’s still unsettling. “Would you mind telling me why?” 

 

Fitz stares at the quilt, tracing an imaginary pattern on the material. “To be truthful, I haven’t got much experience with maidens and the like. Except for...” he trails off, and Jemma is able to fill in the blanks. 

 

For years, she’s observed Fitz’s behavior around others; he’s not the most social of beings and has awkward rambling tendencies, but nothing too unlikable. He’s at the point now where he can converse easily enough with Jemma’s good friend, Daisy, who has been cared for by Mr. Phil Coulson and Ms. Melinda May for most of her life, having been abandoned by her birth parents when she was quite small. Apart from that, though, Fitz doesn’t speak to anyone but her, despite having much spoken about him at formal balls by other ladies her age.

 

Jemma is not stupid, she knows what Fitz looks like. He’s not the most handsome man in their town, but his face is sweet and his eyes are soft and any girl would be lucky to have him, and he would be a wonderful husband. 

 

The thought of it just makes Jemma slightly ill, but she supposes that’s a natural reaction to the thought of losing her best friend. 

 

“I know, I just...” she rests her hand gently on his. “I want you to be happy, is all.”

 

“I am,” Fitz says without hesitation, his eyes boring into hers. Jemma feels as if her heart wedges itself into her throat and sits there. Beats. 

 

“I meant when—when you’re married,” she clarifies, feeling her cheeks flushed. 

 

Fitz’s face smooths over in understanding. “Right,” he mutters, as if he’s said something he didn’t intend to.

 

Jemma chooses not to dwell on it, for his sake and hers. But mostly hers. 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Until: 

 

“I meant it,” Fitz says suddenly, his voice drifting around her along with the chill of the air, as the day draws to a close. “About what I said. Earlier.” 

 

Jemma keeps her eyes trained on the sky as the colors mix and blend and fade. She doesn’t look at Fitz, but she inches just slightly closer, as much as they’re permitted under the watchful eye of their caregivers—just enough so that their pinky fingers are brushing.

 

Her heart pounds. 

 

“I know.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Courting season begins and her parents are anxious, with every formal address sent to the Simmons’ household being swiftly denied, though each rejected suitor’s feelings were generously spared, much to Jemma’s chagrin. 

 

She is not apologetic. She is not even sympathetic. She simply does not care and she will prolong the inevitable for as long as she physically can, even if it nearly kills her. 

 

Throughout these entirely dreadful weeks, Jemma does not see much of Fitz at all, which is equally upsetting. A sick feeling sets permanently in the pit of her stomach, nagging at her that he already has his sights set on a wife, on a life beyond her garden and their piles of books, a life beyond _her_. Each day she wakes, Jemma awaits the news of Fitz’s departure from their friendship, but it never comes. 

 

Instead, her parents sit her down at tea and give her two options: 

 

“Darling, either you make the decision, or we will.” 

 

And really, that should be the end of her shenanigans.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Except it isn’t.

 

Jemma never chooses. 

 

* * *

 

 

 

All talk of marriage suddenly ceases, as if it was never a topic of conversation in the first place. Jemma tiptoes delicately around her parents, attending all of her lessons of social graces and practicing her knitting to keep busy. 

 

She isn’t silly enough to fool herself into thinking that her parents will accept her blatant refusal to marry, so she cherishes what little time she has as a maiden until her parents arrange a union she will be unable to talk herself out of. 

 

What she’ll miss most isn’t her freedom, however, but Fitz. She’ll miss his sputtering and soft eyes. She’ll miss his understanding of her, and hers of him. She misses it already, so much it aches. 

 

Which is why she struggles to breathe when she sees him, in the foyer with his hat in his hands and a frown set firmly on his face. Normally his expression would concern her but in this moment, she’s so utterly overjoyed she could weep. 

 

Before she can even greet him, her parents are ushering them into the sitting room, upon which they see Mrs. Gelda Fitz in all of her stunning beauty. 

 

“Mum!” Fitz exclaims, both in confusion and delight, immediately enveloping her into a hug. 

 

Jemma has seldom seen Mrs. Gelda Fitz since her departure many years ago as she went from city to city as a travelling nurse, leaving Fitz under the care of the house servants, but primarily the old madam who is quite insistent on stretching her years out on this earth for as long as possible, unfortunately. (She and Jemma do not get along; point in fact, the old madam despises Jemma and has called her untidy on more than one occasion, but most snide remarks went ignored as Jemma and Fitz’s friendship progressed.) 

 

Regardless, Jemma has only heard Fitz speak fondly of his mother, adoration prominent on his features when recalling older memories of just the two of them, which always warmed Jemma’s heart.

 

Seeing Mrs. Fitz now though, as well as the tell-tale looks on her parents faces, Jemma isn’t feeling particularly at ease with the intention of this meeting. 

 

“Please be seated,” her father requests, settling next to her mother who looks especially anxious.

 

Jemma and Fitz sit many cushions apart while Gelda is perched diagonally from them, hands folded in a poised manner, smiling at Jemma encouragingly.  

 

After a few moments of stiff silence, Jemma finally speaks. “Father, may I ask what all this is about?” She spares a quick glance at Fitz, whose eyes remain trained to his lap. 

 

Her father heaves a sigh, exchanging a heavy look with her mother. “We’ve agreed upon a marriage union between you and Mr. Leopold Fitz,” Jemma’s mouth falls open in shock just as her stomach drops heavily, and she sputters, attempting to protest, but her father continues. “It’ll do both our families a great deal of good by maintaining financial security. Plus, the familiarity between both of our families offers a great advantage most do not have the privilege of.”

 

“Which is precisely why marriage is absurd! It would ruin _everything,_ ” Jemma objects, immediately regretting her outburst at the reproving look in her parents’ eyes. 

 

“You are well aware of your duties,” her father says, his voice calm but firm. “Do not insult our family by refusing to honor them.” 

 

Jemma bites her bottom lip, lowering herself back into her seat. She looks at Fitz, who is looking anywhere but at her, and suddenly, understanding and betrayal working its way into her bones. 

 

“You knew,” she scoffs, disbelieving. How _could_ he -

 

Fitz finally looks at her, opens his mouth to explain, “Jemma, if you would please just -”

 

She leaves. 

 

 

* * *

 

The garden used to be a sense of security and comfort, but nothing can get rid of the anger buzzing underneath her skin, boiling in her veins. 

 

Jemma’s unsure of how long she’s outside but eventually she feels a tentative hand placed on her shoulder and she knows it belongs to Fitz. She’s unsure of what to feel beyond the stings of hurt and anger that jab at her, but she’s missed him so much that whatever rickety walls she built up around herself in that small span of time are already starting to fall away. 

 

“You could have told me.” Her voice sounds unfamiliar to her own, guarded.

 

Fitz’s hand falters but instead of moving away, he moves closer, until they’re side by side. 

 

“I wanted to. You must believe me. It’s just that—”

 

“You were completely unreachable, Fitz, and—”

 

“—Everything was happening so quickly—”

 

“—I thought you’d _abandoned_ me and—” 

 

“—I didn’t want to disappoint you.” Fitz confesses, his shoulders slumping. 

 

Jemma’s mouth parts, but no words come out. She struggles for a moment, gripping the material of her dress. “Fitz... I—”

 

“I know you do not wish to marry. I’ve known that for a long time now, as you know,” he explains, eyes downcast. “But when your father approached me, it wouldn’t have been in good faith to refuse him, and who knows what pickings would be left since you chased off nearly every respectable man in town.” 

 

“I did _not_!” Jemma cuts in, offended. 

 

Fitz smiles wryly. “You did,” he tells her. “I just... I thought this would be beneficial to both of us. I thought, well. I’d _hoped_ you’d trust me.” 

 

“I do,” Jemma insists, grabbing his wrist. He meets her gaze but he doesn’t look particularly inclined to believe her, not that she’s given him much reason to as of yet. 

 

Fitz sighs. “If you do not wish for me to pursue you, I will not. You have my word. I will find a way out of it, if that is what you wish,” he says earnestly. “I couldn’t live with you resenting me for the rest of our lives.”

 

Jemma feels her heart swell with gratitude as she struggles to reign in her feelings. She doesn’t want marriage, not even remotely. But she _needs_ Fitz, and sacrificing him to avoid it would only kill her in the process, she’s certain. She would rather have him in every way than not at all, no matter what.

  
  


Swallowing tightly, she shakes her head. “I would be honored to be your wife.” 

 

Fitz groans. “Now I know you’re not serious,” he teases playfully, but there’s a pink tint to his cheeks that Jemma willfully ignores, for the meantime.  

 

He stares at her hand on his for a long moment after they quiet, but she doesn’t pull away.  Instead, she holds on tighter. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The courting process is as swift as possible; being that Jemma and Fitz are past well-acquainted, there is very little either needs to know about the other. Unsurprisingly, not much has changed from before: Fitz arrives during the day hours, bringing with him various forms of reading for them to discuss, as well as pastries and chocolates (most of which are actually eaten by him). They spend their days in the garden in their typical spot near the flower patches, enjoying one another’s company. 

 

The whole town fusses over their courtship, many of their peers having placed bets on their union for several years now. Even Daisy makes a playful remark, claiming that she knew they’d arrive at their senses eventually. 

 

Jemma isn’t bothered. Although marriage is the last thing she wanted, this arrangement couldn’t have been more ideal. She gets to keep her books and her best friend, and if she’s being honest with herself, Fitz would have been harder to lose. 

 

Of course, she worries—they have an obligation to their parents to have children, to be a real, married couple, and yet all Jemma sees is her best friend. She’s sure the feeling is quite mutual and she doesn’t know how they’ll evolve past that.  

 

As promised, the wedding is held in a small Church few ways down from their childhood homes. The dress Jemma wears brings about several gasps and when Fitz lays eyes on her, something in his gaze shifts—his eyes widening as he takes in every inch of her that's proper, looking significantly dazed. She doesn’t have much time to think about it while the orchestra plays as she’s escorted down the aisle, while a beautiful ring is slipped onto her finger by Fitz’s trembling hands. She doesn’t think about the exquisite food and the laughs of mirth at dinner, just the steady press of Fitz’s palm into hers. 

 

She has her best friend and that’s all that matters. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Until she’s faced with their marriage bed and _has_ to think about it, has to refer back to the anatomical diagrams she’d previewed years ago in her mind, wondering exactly how the pieces are to fit. 

 

She wonders if Fitz finds her desirable, or if he even wants to, wonders how he’ll look at her afterwards, or during even. She wonders so heavily and worryingly that Fitz places a gentle hand on her shoulder to calm her, assuring her they can wait, until she’s ready, if she ever is. 

 

His eyes are open and earnest and she wants to cry at how wonderful he is, at how incredibly lucky she is to have him, but no tears or sounds come out. Instead, she flings out her arms and embraces him with such abandon she’s never been able to before, and clings. 

 

Fitz inhales sharply in surprise but clutches back, rubbing his thumb softly back and forth against her shoulder. Eventually the both of them tire of standing and when Fitz tries pulling away, Jemma whines in protest, tightening her grip. 

 

“Lie down,” she whispers, too desperate to be embarrassed, not wanting to separate from him. It’s as if every instance that she’s missed him since knowing him has hit her all at once and in that moment, she cannot bear the thought of him leaving her, not even for a second. 

 

Fitz complies, settling on the side of her on the bed, underneath the coverings, and she rolls with him, snuggling against his chest, where his heart beats. She feels him relax completely, his shoulders loosening as he takes controlled breaths until he doesn’t have to think anymore. 

 

Their legs tangle and finally, they sleep. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the weeks the pass after the wedding, however, Jemma does think about it. She replays the whole event in her mind as her things are packed and placed into the carriage outside of her house. 

 

Fitz is taking her to live with him in a cottage in Perthshire, Scotland, formerly owned by his father. He greets her with a shy smile and a soft press of his lips to her cheek, and she beams at him.

 

The blushes aren’t as frequent but they still occur, and Jemma adores each and every one of them. Almost as much as she adores him. She’s certain that he’s easily her favorite person by now and she can only guess as much that he feels the same, with his quiet smiles and feather-light touches.

 

Sometime along the way to Perthshire, Jemma has a realization. 

 

It occurs to her while she watches Fitz sleep against her, sits deep-rooted in her chest, and she’s unable to deny it now.

 

It’s been there since the moment they met, so beyond Jemma’s already vast comprehension, and suddenly everything is very clear. 

 

For the longest time, she didn’t know what love was, not for herself specifically. The singular instance of romantic love she’s known for certain is the way her parents speak fondly of each other, as if their bland conversations have hidden meaning behind them, and maybe they do, and maybe that’s what makes their love special.

 

She thinks of Fitz and how lost she would be without him, both physically and mentally, even if he were only gone for a split moment. It’s quite a funny feeling, truly, never wanting to be without someone. And for the longest time, Jemma didn’t know what that was, couldn’t pinpoint it exactly. 

 

But looking at Fitz now, his nose pressed into her shoulder as he snores softly, she realizes what it, so suddenly and fully that she nearly shakes Fitz awake, to tell him and see his reaction. She’s so overcome with love that it rattles her, makes her giddy, and she busies herself by carding her hand through his curls. 

 

He sniffs, pressing closer, and she exhales slowly, a smile spreading across her face.

 

Not now. But soon. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Weeks later, they have tea in the garden underneath a bit of shade, near a patch of dandelions. Fitz is hunched over his laboratory notebooks, wrinkling yet another suit with his horrendous posture, and maybe Jemma will nag him for it later.  

 

Instead, she just smiles, leaning towards him. “I’ve been thinking.”  

 

Fitz quirks a brow, eyes unmoving. “You don’t say? I’m not even the slightest bit surprised by this information.” 

 

Jemma shoves him lightly. “Quiet, you,” before moving closer. “As I was saying before you so _rudely_ interrupted,” she pauses to glare at him when he snickers, “I was thinking about how much I love you.” 

 

He freezes immediately, looking up at her in wonderment. For a split second, she sees the child she met years ago, his eyes sparkling, and she feels so much in her heart all at once that _I love you_ doesn’t seem to be quite enough. It hardly scratches the surface. 

 

She leans in instead, pressing her lips to his, and hopes that will convey all she’s feeling and unable to explain with words and the logic of her mind. She used to be afraid of not understanding everything, of not being able to categorize or place pieces into their proper places, but with Fitz, he’s in every crevice of her heart and her mind that it would be pointless to even try. 

 

Fitz presses back against her, his lips slack and unpracticed and unsure but it’s perfect, and when he whispers _I love you_ into her mouth, it’s enough. 


End file.
